From Here on Out
by GatorGurl94
Summary: Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural Notes: Thank you to dragonflybeach for her beta and feedback. They are finally done riding the merry-go-round. Assumes everything up to "Captives". AU from there on out.


She lies in bed exhausted but unable to sleep. Something that to her chagrin, has been happening with more and more frequency. She focuses on other things. Things she can control; performance reviews, budgets, the clog (which she's convinced is less a plumbing issue and more a dumb ass deputy issue) in the men's bathroom of the station. She makes lists and works hard to put a positive spin on the day to come. A wistful smile crosses her face. She wishes she were one of those people who can lie to themselves. Too bad she never was one for self-deception. The truth is, every day she feels a little more removed from the police work she used to love.

It's hard to sleep knowing there are more than just the garden variety monsters-the human kind-lurking in the dark. After Bobby's death, after nearly chocking on her own blood in the ladies, after nearly losing her life to a bitter deity, it's difficult for her to pretend to be satisfied with corralling the town drunk. She thinks of the boxes stacked wall high in her garage. She watches the shadows creep along the ceiling. Sometimes she wishes she'd never looked in them.

But she had. Now she knows everything. She knows what is hiding in the dark. She can't pretend otherwise. Her window frames and door jams are carved with protective sigils. Her windowsills are salted. A devil trap is nicely hidden beneath her living room rug. A hex bag is hidden her bedroom. There is a battle going on and she's not part of it. At least I can protect this town, she thinks but wishes she could do more.

When the phone rings, it's a relief: 4:30am. She glances at the number; she doesn't recognize it.

"Sheriff Mills."

There is a pause then a tired, "Hey Sheriff."

She sits up quickly, flicking her light on. "Dean?"

Normally, she could count on a random status text from Dean or brief email from Sam. It had been weeks since she had heard from either Winchester. It had been weeks of wondering where they might be, how they might be doing, who was after them now. It always surprises her how much she thinks about them and how invested she is in their well-being. She supposes it's partly because of Bobby. He had loved them; he'd want to know someone was watching out for them. She shoves the thought aside; she can't think about Bobby.

"I'm sorry to wake you." He sounds remote.

"Where are you?"

"We're outside."

She throws back the covers. She doesn't bother with shoes or a robe. She drops the phone and rushes downstairs to let them in.

She opens the door and finds them across the street, standing wearily beside the Impala. Dean waves, phone still in hand. They grab their gear off the floor and start to cross. She watches them carefully. They're both moving slowly, deliberately. Are they hurt? Are they ever NOT hurt? They move in tandem, but could not be any further apart.

"Hey." Dean gives her a halfhearted hug, pulling back before she can even return it. He steps into the house quickly, giving Sam room to greet her.

His hugs is a little better. "Hi Sheriff." He sounds drained. "We're sorry to barge in on you like this."

She gives the street a quick sweep before shutting the door. "When I told you my door is always open, I meant it."

"Is it okay if we crash here for a few hours?" Dean normally the more boisterous of two, stands awkwardly in her living room, one hand clutching his bag, the other stuffed in his pocket. For a moment he doesn't look at all like himself. She dismisses it. _He's tired_.

"Of course. The rooms are made up." _They're always made up for you and Sam._

"Thanks," he mutters quietly. He glances at Sam, something tense and adversarial passing between them.

Neither man moves.

"I'll grab some towels for you." She starts up the stairs-anything to escape the perplexing standoff unfolding in her living room. They follow silently.

She listens to them get ready for bed and ultimately closing their respective bedroom doors. She lies awake for the rest of the night wondering about what she just witnessed.

She gets up at first light. When she emerges into the hallway after washing her face and getting dressed, she sees both doors are still closed. _They're still here._ She smiles, relieved they haven't changed their minds about staying. She heads to the kitchen. Coffee. What everyone will need is coffee.

The kitchen, like the rest of her house, is spotless. Not because she's particularly neat, but because it rarely gets any use. One plate, one fork, one cup sit in the dish rack. Yesterday's coffee mug sits in the sink. Sometimes she thinks it was ridiculous to keep the house. One person in all of this emptiness that used to be filled with so much. She smiles remembering her son spilling his Cheerios on the floor, remembering hard kisses against the kitchen counter, remembering another kitchen, another kiss. Always full of surprises, that Bobby Singer.

When she hears they are finally up, she begins gathering food for breakfast. She's not sure what else can do for them, but she can at the very least make them some pancakes and eggs.

"Do you want some help?"

She gestures towards the pancake box. "You think you can handle that?"

Dean's brow quirks mischievously. "You'd be surprised." It's meant as a joke, but comes off without much mirth behind it.

He surprises her by setting up right beside her, though there is plenty of space.

"I hope you guys like them scrambled."

"Yeah."

They work silently for a few minutes. She doesn't quite know what to do this with this pensive, brooding man beside her. She doesn't want to pry. She doesn't want to eliminate any chance of finding out what the hell is going on by putting him on the defensive. She opts for a safer route and settles for, "I'm glad you're here" followed by a soft nudge.

He gives her a half smile and asks if she has a griddle.

"Bottom cabinet." She gives him room at the stove top. They make breakfast in silence.

Sam arrives as Dean finishes making the last pancake.

He grabs one of the cups she's set out and pours himself some coffee. "Morning."

She greets him with a smile. Dean mutters a good morning and takes a seat.

"No work today Sheriff?" Sam doesn't sit. He takes his plate, filling it with eggs and pancakes. He leans against the counter and begins to eat.

She looks from Sam to Dean, who is busy stabbing his eggs. Oh this is bullshit, she thinks.

"I've got the day off, barring some crime spree of course."

Polite smiles all around.

"You guys cooked. I'll clean up." Sam takes the plates from the table.

As he leaves the kitchen, Dean says sternly, "I want to get back on the road as soon as possible."

"Ok." Sam replies without looking at him.

She doesn't take their desire to flee personally. She understands that whatever his is has nothing to do with her. She also knows they had stopped here for a reason. May be not with forethought, not consciously, but there is a reason they are here. Something is clearly broken between them. She tells herself, maybe they need perspective or a mediator. Maybe they need someone to give them the tough love and slap upside the head that Bobby could always deliver. Some other day she might have followed his footsteps. It might have even worked. Instinctively she senses now is not the time for that. They need more than that. She recalls the perplexed look Sam had given her the last time they saw each other, when she had commented that at least Sam and Dean had each other for comfort. She can't fathom what's happened to create this rift. What more could they possibly do to each other?

She follows Dean out, hooking her arm into his. He looks down at her, puzzled. "Can I talk to you?"

"Well, I was gonna grab my gear…"

She leads him towards the back door. "You know your bag is already packed. This will only take a minute."

He grins and lets her drag him outside.

Sam wonders just what they're talking about. Dean stands stiffly in the yard. Sheriff Mills stands beside him, glancing at Dean occasionally but mostly just standing there with her arms crossed. Both of their backs are to him, but from her stillness it Dean seems is doing all the talking. _I guess as long as it's not me, he's got plenty to say_, Sam thinks.

On this hunt the bickering had been non-stop. Usually, they were able to stick to their business only arrangement, not this time. They had disagreed on everything from the game plan to their fake ids. They'd argued from North Platte to Sioux City about whether to call Sheriff Mills.

"_What the hell's your problem?" Dean growled. "Are you purposely trying to piss me off? I am fucking exhausted. I don't want to spend another night in shitty motel. I thought you'd be happy to see her."_

"_It's a six hour drive in the opposite direction. I'm not tired; I can drive." _

"_Why are you being such a bitch about this? Can you please just fucking go with it?" _Dean had looked to him for a retort, his expression drained and defeated.

Sam couldn't say what he wanted to, not out loud and certainly not to Dean. He'd shut his mouth and swallowed his aggravation. Once again Dean gets his way. Here they were. Why the hell had Dean wanted to stop here?

Sam watches as she turns to face Dean; touches his hand. He wonders what version of everything that's come between them Dean is selling her. He wonders what Dean's end game is. Is he trying to get her on his side? Someone else to tell Sam he's wrong to feel the way he does. Give him a lecture about family. The resentment he'd tamped down all night, all morning flickers back to life.

Dean and the Sheriff talk for what seems an inordinate amount of time. Until they finally stop, each looking at the ground. Dean hangs his head, his shoulder shaking. She places her hand on his cheek then wraps her arms around Dean's neck. At first, Dean resists; she pulls him towards her. Dean hesitates then puts his arms around her. He's holding on tightly, forcing her body to bend forward awkwardly. Dean holds her like that for a long time then straightens up. Her feet dangle. She rests her chin on Dean's shoulders; she is crying. She pulls herself up, as if she could hold on any tighter. She holds the back of his head and kisses his neck softly. Her gesture is tender, comforting.

The anger has a firm hold on Sam now.

He can't watch one more fucking minute.

Dean pulls his flask from his back pocket. Takes a long drink. Then another. He stands in the backyard, too raw, too embarrassed to go back inside. He keeps drinking until the embarrassment slowly ebbs and something akin to relief replaces it.

When it had all started going to shit 10 hours into the last hunt, he'd wanted to pick up the phone and call Bobby. But there was no Bobby; there wasn't anyone more to act like a buffer. No one who understood how he and Sam had gotten to this fucked up place where they weren't even brothers anymore. Maybe coming here was grasping at straws. He didn't care.

He wasn't kidding himself. He knew nothing between him and Sam had changed. Sam was still pissed; they were still just hunters working the job. But his brief conversation with Sheriff Mills had changed him. Already he felt the weight, the sorrow, and yeah, the loneliness slipping away a little.

He had wanted to tell her everything. Confess what he'd done. But when she'd asked about the tension between him and Sam, he offered only a vague "Sam and I aren't getting along."

"Brothers fight," she'd said.

He'd only shaken his head and pressed on. "No, it's more than that now. It's gotten so big…don't get me wrong, I want to make it right. I just…um." He had paused, trying to figure out how to explain. "What do you know?"

"Probably more that you'd like me to." She admitted.

"Purgatory?"

She'd breathed a quiet yes.

"At first, it was absolute chaos, and then it was permanent state of fear and exhaustion. There was no time to think. Morality, decency, humanity - none of it existed there. There was no right, no wrong, just do what you need to do to survive. Every day there was kill or be killed. It was simple, pure even. And even though I tried not to be, eventually I was just like every other monster there. There wasn't anything I wasn't going to do to survive…to get back to Sam."

He hadn't looked at her, too afraid to see her reaction. He'd just kept talking too afraid to stop. "When Bennie offered me a deal out, I didn't for one second think about the fact I was bringing a vampire back. I convinced myself that it was okay. He wasn't monster; he was a brother in arms. And anyway, he knew if he ever fell off the wagon, I'd come after him. That made it okay and that made me a good guy again."

He had ignored her shaky breathing and hard swallows. "I was back and I thought it would all go back to being the way it had been. But none of it was, Sam had moved on; he hadn't even looked for me."

When he'd begun to falter, she'd turned to face him; touched the back of his hand reassuringly.

"Even when we went back to hunting, it was like all the rules had changed. Everything that was right was wrong. What was wrong was worse. The lines have become so blurred...I don't know where I stand anymore. I find myself doing things, making decisions I would have never made before. It's like part of me is still trapped in that place, just surviving. Surviving no matter what, no matter who I hurt. I tell myself that I'm it all for the right reasons that I'm doing it for Sammy…but I don't know..."

He'd looked at her then expecting judgment, but there was none. She had smiled weakly and encouraged him to go on.

"I have to believe I can make it right, otherwise…" he hadn't said was he was thinking. He known instinctively she couldn't handle that. "But, how do I make up for the fact I _betrayed_ Sam? I got Kevin _killed_. I…" took a road trip with the devil that almost killed you, "I made another deal…god knows what it will cost." He had felt the tears spill over then, but hadn't bothered hiding them. "I feel like I'm losing it, Sheriff, like I'm losing everything. I used to believe that whatever happened, I was still a good guy. But what if I'm not? I've crossed so many lines."

He'd broken down then, hanging his head so he wouldn't have to look at her. He had whispered what he felt certain would condemn him in her eyes. "What if I'm really just one of them – a monster - in the shell of who I used to be?"

She had sucked in a shocked breath.

He had fully expected her to walk away. She hadn't. She'd thrown her arms around him, demanding he allow her to comfort him. Despite everything inside him that screamed he didn't deserve it, he'd accepted it.

"I want to make it right." He'd breathed it over and over like a prayer.

She had held him, caressed the back of his head and whispered, "It's okay; it's going to be okay." Then she'd kissed him. It had been so long since anyone had kissed him that way, it touched something in him.

He hadn't wanted her to go. He'd wanted to hold on to her and that feeling of acceptance as long as he possibly could.

"What did he tell you?" Sam demands as soon as she steps into the bedroom.

Suddenly, she feels as if she's in the middle of high stakes negotiation. He sits at the edge of the bed, his hands clenched together. His voice is tight and controlled.

She counts to ten; takes a deep breath. "Can I sit down?"

He nods. She sits down, her leg touching his. She's not sure what to say or do. She only knows that there isn't any room for obfuscation.

"Dean just needed to talk. Some of it was about you…a lot of it wasn't."

He eyes her warily. "Let me guess, I'm the bad guy."

She rests her hand on his knee. To her surprise he covers it with his own, weaving his fingers into hers. "It's not like that, Sam."

"What's it like then?"

She remembers Dean's words, _I betrayed Sam_. "I don't know exactly what's happened between you two. It's not my place to share what he said, but I can tell you that he wants to fix whatever's broken between you. You're not the bad guy, but neither is he."

He sits quietly beside her, his hand entwined in hers. "This isn't going to work, you know."

"What?"

"You're not going to be able to help us fix this. Give us the Bobby talk and send us off into the sunset."

She pulls her hand out from his, annoyed at his cynicism. That's not the Sam she knows.

"I'm not trying to fix anything. I think Dean is the one who wants to fix things and that that's why you are both here."

"I don't know if that's possible, Sheriff." He says matter-of-factly.

Her heart breaks. She can't imagine what life must be like for this man whose only real parent was his brother, whose only family had destroyed his trust. Her instinct is to hold him, provide some him some measure of comfort, but she stops herself.

"I hope that it is, Sam." she says standing.

He grabs her wrist. His hand is hot against her bare skin. The touch makes her shiver. "What if it isn't?"

_Your brother will never stop punishing himself. He'll buy all in to his destruction._

"Sometimes we have to be stronger than it is fair to expect. I think in this case, you're going to have to find all your strength Sam. I don't think Dean has any left."

He doesn't react, just stares at her blankly. She kisses him hoping it will convey the depth of her empathy for him and of her concern for his brother. His lips are soft, pliant to her touch. Greedy. She doesn't wait to see his reaction. She leaves quickly before the tears come.

Dean has pulled a chair off the back porch and into the middle of the yard. Sam watches him sit there and drink. _Some of it was about you…a lot of it wasn't._ What part of it was about me, Sheriff? Any part that actually took my opinion or feelings into consideration or just the part where Dean turns my life into something about him?

He reflects on her kiss - warm, inviting, forgiving. Sheriff Mills. Jody. Sheriff. He thinks about standing in her living room and shooting what used to be her child. He had never expected her to forgive him, much less become his friend. But she had. He's glad. He felt comfortable with her; freer to be himself. Sam Winchester without the baggage that being Dean and Sam brought. She didn't regard him with pity or fear or distrust. She wasn't holding his past against him. She was open and trustworthy and treated him as if he were too.

Dean takes another long drink. Why had Dean insisted on coming here? What was she to Dean anyway? So much of the time he and the Sheriff had spent together had been just two of them. Dean in the background, involved but not one on one with her, like he had been. Even in Hartford, with Dean off on his own "investigation", it was Sam and the Sheriff putting together the details. It was him and her rescuing Dean; her saving Sam's life. They were in their way, their own team. Something separate from Dean, something that was just his. There was something there beyond good team work. He understood that long before he was willing to admit it. He thinks about sharing a bottle of whiskey with her and smiles remembering how he'd secretly hoped their card game would end in nudity.

Dean stands slowly, steadying himself on the Adirondack chair. Empty flask, Sam thinks.

As Dean turns to head back into the house, he looks up at Sam. They regard each other warily and then Dean goes inside.

Maybe, Sam thinks, he should do some drinking of his own. He certainly doesn't want to spend any more time thinking. At the bunker all he has is time to think he can handle.

That night she dreams about her son.

He's standing over her. His face is covered in blood. His bared teeth slick and shiny. His eyes empty and devoid of life. "I'm hungry Mommy."

She sits ups. She tries to scramble away but her feet slide out from under her. Blood everywhere. She can't gain any traction. He reaches out to her. "Hold me Mommy." Tears slide down his face. "Please Mommy."

A shadow of the boy he used to be crosses his face. She can't say no. She can't give up on him. She takes him in her arms. "I'm here, baby. I'm here, baby."

Sam is behind them. His weapon aimed right at them.

Her son holds her tight. "I love you Mommy. I love you."

"Oh sweet boy." She kisses his eyes, his forehead.

"Mommy." He bares his teeth and bites her. A gunshot echoes in the distance.

She wakes up gulping for air, choked sobs escaping between each gasp. She hugs herself tightly to keep herself from shaking. "No, no, no" she whispers between sobs.

She doesn't know how much time passes before the sobs slow to a whimper. Her throat is raw and she is cold. She must have kicked off the sheets in her sleep. She turns to her side, curling up into ball. The emptiness swallows her. There is nothingness. Just like the first time he'd died. Just like it had been in the days when she thought she might die herself under the weight of her grief.

Time passes boundless and eternal. They are there on the periphery. She wonders if they know she can feel them watching her. She wonders why neither has said anything. She curls in a little tighter. Snippets of their earlier conversations float in her mind. _It's okay_, she reassures them silently. She drifts into unconsciousness.

She wakes up to find Sam sitting on the floor beside her bed, his head crooked awkwardly to the side. His breathing is steady and even. He's sleeping. She props herself up, turning on her other side. Dean is sleeping too, sprawled out in the reading chair by her window. His mouth is open. He's snoring. Dean Winchester snores. She lays back down, not wanting to wake them.

It had been a long time since she'd had that particular nightmare. She thinks about Dean standing on the edge of an abyss while Sam is finally on solid ground. She thinks about her son, the adolescent he'd be. She is hollowed out. Her head and eyes ache. Her stomach is sour. Her legs are sore. Her knees are stiff. Getting old, Jody, she tells herself, stretching.

"Sheriff."

Sam is standing beside the bed rubbing his neck. He looks at her expectantly. Why doesn't he ever call her Jody?

"You didn't have to," she whispers, not wanting to wake Dean. She sits up, scooting back to lean against the headboard.

As Sam sits down at the foot of her bed, Dean wakes up. He sits up quickly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He gives them a questioning, curious look. Suddenly, she very conscious of the fact she in only in a t-shirt and her underwear.

"I feel like a fool," she says before either man can say anything. She draws her knees up to cover herself.

"We, um, we heard you shouting." Dean offers shyly. "I'm sorry. We weren't trying to intrude or anything. We just wanted to make sure you were okay."

Sam smiles at her, nodding his head in agreement. Well, at least they agree on something.

Dean stands; a grimace of pain crosses his face. "We'll go."

No, don't go. Stay. She looks down at her knees.

Sam squeezes her foot then gets up to follow Dean out. "You okay?"

"Yeah, yeah," she shakes it off, smiles for their benefit. "You guys go. I know you want the hit the road. I've already kept you here long enough. I know you have to get back."

Sam and Dean exchange confused looks.

"I'm pretty sure Dean was just talking about going down stairs."

She hugs her knees and laughs.

"It was a bad idea coming here." Sam pours a cup himself a cup of coffee.

"Don't start," Dean says offering Sam his empty cup.

They drink in silence until she comes downstairs.

"You guys going to be here when I get back?" she asks as she puts her hat on.

Dean looks to Sam. Sam can almost read his mind, _if_ _you want to go so badly, you tell her._

Since he really doesn't want to and he has no excuse to go, Sam says answers yes for the both of them.

She smiles. "Good." She starts to go.

Dean calls after her. "Hey, do you mind if we do some stuff around the house?"

Sam shoots him an accusatory glance as she pops back into the door frame.

"I mean you've done a pretty job warding the place, but some of the sigils need work." Dean sips his coffee. "And frankly, so does your yard."

She grins. "Sure, knock yourselves out boys."

They've been screwing around with the lawn mower for a while now. He thinks it needs a new sparkplug; Dean thinks the gas/oil mixture has gone bad.

They both think the lawn mower is a piece shit.

"All right," Dean says giving up. "Let's either go buy a new one or move on. This is just pissing me off."

"Whatever you say, Dean." Sam smirks.

Dean pauses, his jaw clenches and unclenches. Sam can see he's trying hard not to say something that will start a fight.

"Come on," Sam says, heading out of the storage shed. He doesn't know why he keeps pushing. He doesn't really want to have another pointless go around.

"Hold up."

Sam turns around. Dean stands there as if he's running through all of his options. He doesn't look angry, more like resigned.

"What Dean, what? Go pick up a new one if you want. I'm going to check out the house."

"I want to talk to you."

Sam doesn't think he has it in him for another one of their talks. He says so.

"Stop being an asshole," Dean tells him without much conviction.

"All right then, let's hear it. Let's talk."

Dean leans again the opening of the shed, fidgeting with the screwdriver in his hand. Sam feels ridiculous and exposed standing in the yard. He has nothing to hide behind, nothing to do with his hands.

"I don't want to keep just working jobs." Dean says then pauses.

The pause lasts a little too long. Sam is filling in blanks. "What the hell does that mean?"

Dean sighs, exasperated. Before Sam can say anything, Dean adds, "Just let me say what I have to say and then we can be done...if that's what you want."

Sam's weak indignation is no match for Dean's sincerity. Sam shrugs.

"This arrangement - I can't do it." Dean's voice breaks with emotion, but Sam can't read anything in his face. Dean is focused 100% on the screwdriver in his hands. "I'm getting whiplash trying to figure out how I'm supposed to act around you. Are we pretending everything's fine today or is this going to be another constantly fighting about everything day? Maybe you hate me so much, it doesn't matter to you, but it's killing me, Sammy."

"I don't hate you," Sam wishes he knew how make Dean understand.

"I want to make this right." Dean looks up at him expectantly.

Sam has rehearsed this conversation so many times. He has so much he wants to say; he doesn't even know where to begin. "Dean, I can't keep on pretending that the way we function works for me. We don't see our lives, our job the same way anymore. We used to be in this fight together; I don't know what the hell you're fighting for now."

Sam can see the frustration creep into Dean's face. "It's not about the job, man."

"Our whole life has been about the job," Sam stops himself. He doesn't want to turn this into another argument about who did what. "But you're right, there's way too much shit to wade through there and none of that matters now. At its core this is about something so much simpler. It all boils down to respect and trust. You haven't had either for me in long time; now I don't have any for you. So we have nothing. We have the job. We're grown men Dean…."

Sam pauses unsure of what to say next. He takes a deep breath trying to gather his thoughts. "When I decided to leave for school, part of it was because of Dad. Part of it was because I didn't want to hunt. But most of it was about needing to know who I was without you. I needed to know I could survive, that I could take care of myself. That if I wanted to, I could be and do something completely separate. And you know what? I did. I can. "

Dean looks at him, confused.

"You know Dean, the most honest thing you ever said to me, you said that night you came to get me. When I said you could find Dad on your own, you said 'Well, I don't want to.' And I was so stupid, I thought that meant we were even. We were partners. You weren't there because I needed you or couldn't handle myself. You were there because _you_ needed _me_. Then we were on the road and it was the same as it always had been."

Dean expression is completely shuttered.

"What's sad is, that it's still true. You don't want to do this alone. But you're too stubborn to see that you don't have to; you never did. Maybe if you had trusted me, had just a little bit of faith instead of always treating me like your poor, lost little brother, we wouldn't be broken."

Dean says nothing.

"Come on Dean, talk to me." He tries not to let the frustration creep into his voice.

Dean shakes his head, "Sam…I…how many more times am I supposed to say I'm sorry?"

"I know you're sorry Dean. I'm sorry too. I don't need you to apologize. I need to know you understand. Back in that church, I was ready to die. Ready for it to be over and you should have let me. You should have trusted me and respected me enough to let me go. The way I respected and trusted you when you said no more deals, no more trying to save each other at all costs, when you said go live a normal life. You should have followed through on your promise. Look, I don't know if I can ever forgive and I sure as hell am not ever going to forget, but if we're going to move forward, I need to know things will change. That you'll at least try."

Dean nods, jaw clenched tight against the emotions. Sam closes the space between them. "If we're going to be brothers, that's what I need you to do."

"No more lies. No more secrets."

"No more deals." Sam adds.

Dean nods slowly. For the first time in their conversation, he's looking straight at Sam. "Truth then? You're right. You don't need to convince me how easily you could leave here and be just fine. I know; I've known all along that you don't need me the way I need you. "

Sam is surprised by the admission and crushed by the expression on his brother's face.

"But I wasn't keeping you here _just_ because I didn't want to be alone. I honestly believed I was protecting you. Protecting you is the only good thing left."

"Dean…"

"The truth is we've been on this merry go round all of our adult lives. It's the same argument over and over again. It's only the details that change. I don't want to fight you anymore. I don't have any fight left. I'm barely holding on, man. I can't do this without you. I won't." The tears are coming even though Sam can see Dean is doing his best to fight them. "Do you understand me?"

_You're going to have to find all your strength Sam. I don't think Dean has any left._

All of the anger and resentment he'd felt dissipates at the sight of his brother truly in need. There is only one person who needs a lifeline; Sam can't deny throwing it to him. He understands too well what Dean means.

"We can start over. We'll protect each other. Forget the angels, the demons - we'll save ourselves."

The Impala is gone, but Sam is outside sitting on the steps when she gets home. He looks different than the before, lighter, more at ease. He smiles at her as she walks up to the house. She's glad she has her armor on.

"Where's Dean?" she asks taking a seat beside him.

"He's gone to get more beer."

"Is that good or bad?" She jokes.

She fiddles with her hat. He stares across the street.

"I don't know." After some consideration, he adds, "It felt more good than bad."

"You guys okay?" She asks. Her neighbors wave to her as they power walk down the street, their gaze lingering too long on her and Sam. She just knows the rumors will be flying tomorrow.

Sam watches them walk away. "I don't know. Maybe." He says tentatively.

She doesn't push; there is no point. This isn't her fight; she's just a shoulder to cry on.

"I thought the yard would look nicer." She smiles.

"Well, we never got around to that." He says turning his attention back to her. "By the way, you are going to need a new lawn mower."

Dean pulls into the driveway a few minutes later.

He steps out of the car, grabs the two cases of beer from the back seat. "A little help here."

Sam walks over and grabs the two cases while Dean grabs a grocery size paper bag.

"What's in there?" she asks getting up to go into the house.

"My pal Jack Daniels and his partner Jim Beam."

She's drunk, but not so drunk that she can't see she's being hustled.

"I fold."

Dean pours her another shot of bourbon.

"Come on, Sheriff. You know the rules. Losers drink." Dean smirks. She thinks that maybe he's enjoying this just a little too much.

She shakes her heavy head. "You and you", she mutters pointing to each man emphatically, "are cheaters."

"Maybe we're just really good card players." Sam adds teasingly.

Her mouth is dry and everything is warm and fuzzy and her hands feel too big.

"You are hustlers."

They both laugh at her expense but she doesn't care. She doesn't think she's ever heard them laugh. Sardonic laughter, bitter laughter, disdainful laughter: all of these she has heard. Laughter born of merriment, not so much. They're like different people, she thinks. She wonders who these men would be if they hadn't had the burden of being Sam and Dean Winchester. Maybe Sam would be a lawyer married to that girl…Jess…and Dean would be…well, she doesn't know what he'd be. A mechanic? No, no action in that. Maybe a cop. Special teams. He has the instincts and certainly the sense of duty. A cop and lawyer, she chuckles, satisfied with her assessment. She laughs a little harder as she imagines Dean in uniform.

"You okay there Sheriff?" Sam watches her with an amused expression.

Her body feels heavy, flush with warmth. Her skin pulses, sensitive and yearning. The plastic cards feel cool against her fingertip. She wishes she could lay her head down.

"Rules are rules," Dean says gesturing to her full shot glass.

"Cheaters," is all she manages.

"You had enough?" Sam. Forehead crinkled with concern. She wants to warn him he shouldn't do that. Those are wrinkles that will never go away. But his eyes are alight and the corner or his mouth quirked just so that's she forgotten whatever she was about to say. She thinks about kissing him. So greedy.

_Stop it._ She shakes her head, chastising herself for being stupid.

"Is that a no? You want another." Dean teases, all smiles. She likes this Dean. She hopes this is who he is at heart, who he'd get to be all the time if he didn't have to fight demons and monsters and himself. She wonders what he's like when he's alone, when there's no one to pretend for. He'd held her so tight, so desperately. She hadn't wanted to let him go.

_No. No. No._ She stands, the chair scrapping back loudly. She needs to get out. "I should go to bed."

"We can walk you up." Sam offers. Dean downs her shot.

_Be best if you two stayed here because you two confuse me and it makes no sense and the last thing I want to do is make a bigger fool of myself than I already have._

"It's okay, I think I got this." She hopes her smile disguises every thought she is thinking.

"You think she'll be okay?" Dean asks, gathering up beer bottles. "She seemed pretty wasted."

"I think she'll be all right. I don't think this is her first time."

It amazes Sam at how easily he and Dean fall back together. Twenty four hours ago he'd been ready to cut Dean out, to give up on him and now here they are playing cards and having a drink. Hanging out in Sheriff Mills' kitchen, as if they didn't have Heaven and Hell waiting for them back at the bunker.

He starts picking up the cards. Maybe Dean was right to bring them here. They have to start somewhere; he guesses this is as good a place as any.

They clean up remarking on what an easy mark the Sheriff was and recounting other equally easy hustles they'd pulled. To Sam it feels as it should. It's not that anything is forgiven or forgotten, only that there is hope that something might finally be different between them. Sam wants to believe.

When they head upstairs to get ready, Sam steals the sink while Dean is brushing his teeth. He washes his face while Dean complains through a mouth of foam. He thinks of all thousands of times they'd shared a bathroom, how it never felt weird or like they were invading each other's space. It just felt a part of their routine of being together. He likes his own space but can admit that he'd missed the camaraderie they always shared.

Dean elbows him out of the way. Sam dries his hands. Sam hands Dean the towel when he's done.

They stand silently watching each other in the mirror. Sam hardly recognizes the two men staring back at him.

"Thanks Sam." Dean says to Sam's reflection.

"For what?"

"For staying, for letting me try."

Dean is up before everybody else. He feels surprisingly good, nothing a couple of aspirin won't fix. He lays in bed rewinding and replaying the past two days. He wonders if the possibility of change is real or an illusion of circumstance.

It has to be real, he tells himself. Hadn't telling her meant he was willing to change? He was willing to stop carrying the burden of all their secrets. Secrets he'd never wanted to carry in the first place. He has spent a lifetime trying to be strong enough, good enough. He is just so fucking tired.

He touches his forearm absentmindedly, his fingers mapping out the edges of the mark. Cain and Abel. One brother killing another to save him from Lucifer. His father's final words come back to him. "You need to save Sammy…but if you can't, if you can't save him, you'll have to kill him." Always the merry go round. He presses down on the mark, the pain pushing the words away. Who will need to save who now?

No. This time it's going to be different. They'd finish this and Sam could have his normal life, his picket fence…

Dean stops himself, realizing he doesn't even know if that's what Sam wants anymore. He has no idea what Sam wants. When did that happen? He mulls over everything Sam had said about them not seeing the world, the job the same way, about Sam not knowing what Dean was fighting for anymore. It makes him sick to admit he isn't too sure himself. Saving the world was clear enough of a mission, no grey area there. But what are they doing now? Fighting to send the dick angels back to Heaven? To stop the hostile takeover of Hell? To what end? They weren't destroying the monsters, just sending them back to their respective corners.

He sits up, his head truly pounding now. Fuck them. He covers the mark with this hand. No more. Whatever price he has to pay, whatever toll his deal takes - when this is over, if he survives, if he and Sam are still brothers, he's going to finally make good on his promise. If he survives, he's going to live.

Sam knocks quietly and lets himself in. She's lying on the bed, arm blocking the light out. Her cell phone is on her chest, one side of her t-shirt bunched just below her ribs exposing her pale skin.

"Hey Sheriff."

Her only response is a grumble that sounds vaguely like "hi".

He sits on the edge of the bed. "I brought you some Alka Seltzer."

She sits up with much effort. He stifles the urge to laugh by clearing his throat. "I feel badly about last night." He says offering her the glass.

"You should." She takes the glass and drinks quickly. "That was just wrong."

He laughs.

"Not funny."

"Uh oh, the Mom voice." He takes the glass from her setting it on the night stand.

Daggers.

"Look, I know. I'm sorry."

Her expressions softens. "You guys were having a good time though." She rests her hand on his. "So, it's okay?"

He turns his hand so their palms are touching. Her hand looks small in his. "It's better." He rubs the back of her hand with his thumb. Her skin is soft and cool. "It has the promise to be okay."

He had only intended to make amends for having some fun at her expense. But when he'd seen her lying in bed, her nipples pert beneath the dark t-shirt, the pale swath of skin, something that had long been simmering beneath the surface came forth. Though, he is not sure now is the time to do anything about it.

He moves further into the bed, simultaneously wrapping his arm around her waist and pulling her closer to him.

"Sam…"

Her face is close to his; she smells of sweat and whiskey. Her eyes are wide with surprise, but her body is relaxed. He smooths her hair back, his hand resting briefly on the back of her head before trailing down her neck.

She leans in, resting her forehead on his shoulder. She sighs. "Sam…please."

A plea? A warning? An invitation? He can't tell.

"It's okay, Sheriff. There's nothing wrong with providing each other some comfort." He hopes this assures her. Though he wants much more, he'll settle for telling her what he thinks she needs to hear. He's had a lot of time to think about her; he moved past seeing her just as a source of comfort a long time ago. He's not at all convinced she feels the same.

She shakes her head. "What about Dean?"

"What about him? He could probably use a little comfort himself." The words spill out before he's even really given them shape. He is almost as surprised as she is. Why would he say that? This has nothing to do with him.

She is watching him now. Her expression serious. Her eyes dark. He wishes he had just told her the truth.

"What is that supposed to mean?" She whispers.

"I don't know why I said that."

She pulls away. "You'd better go."

"Hair of the dog?" Dean offers Sam his flask.

Sam shakes his head; Dean pours some into his coffee.

"Where's the Sheriff this morning?" Dean asks, with what Sam easily recognizes as his "innocent" expression.

"Sleeping it off, I guess," he replies nonchalantly. Two can play that game. "How would I know?"

"Huh-well, because I thought I saw you in her bedroom this morning."

Sam tries hard to mask his embarrassment; he feels like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

"It looked…compromising." Dean smirks.

Sam says nothing. He doesn't know if how he feels about her is something he wants to share just yet.

"How long has that been going on?

Sam presents his mug to Dean, who chuckles and pours him a shot.

"It hasn't."

"But you've wanted it to." There is no teasing in his voice, no judgment. Sam wonders where Dean's going with this. He considers lying, slamming the door on the whole conversation but decides against it. This was not a question or a slight, just a statement of fact.

"Yeah."

Dean isn't looking at him, busy inspecting the yard. "Well, I don't blame you Sammy."

_Was that an admission? _Sam suddenly wishes his brother would go back to being his taciturn self. _No_, he tells himself, _you're reading into things_.

"It doesn't matter now." Sam says picking up the flask where Dean had set it down between them. "I think I just blew it."

Dean turns to him smiling. "Nah-she likes us too much."

_Not you, us. Why would he say us?_

"I doubt there isn't anything Sheriff Mills wouldn't for us."

Sam wonders what the hell he's talking about, wonders when Dean became such an expert of Sheriff Mills. He says so.

"I guess there's a lot you don't know about me Sam." Dean pauses then adds, "Just like there isn't a whole lot I know about you these days. And I'm sorry about that. Things haven't been right between us for a while. I just couldn't admit it. "

For the second time in as many days, Sam is shocked by his brother.

"I don't know, maybe I needed you to be the same so I could keep on pretending that I was the same person I'd been…before. So that I could keep pretending our brotherhood was the same, even though it wasn't. I didn't want to admit we'd both become different people." He sighs, rubbing his hand across his face. "That probably doesn't make any sense to you."

Sam can't look at him, feeling for the first time in a long time, that his emotions might get the better of him.

"You know - I keep thinking about the djinn, about Balthazar…"

"What?"

"We didn't get along, Sam. We didn't have anything in common. We weren't even brothers in that one place - just two guys pretending."

"None of that was real Dean."

"That doesn't mean there wasn't truth to it. What's going to happen when this is done? What happens when there is nothing for us left to fight? Are you going to stay?"

Sam doesn't know how to respond. He'd asked himself the same question hundreds of times. There had been a time when he couldn't imagine a life with his brother in it. Lately, though, he'd begun to envision not only the end of their hunting days but of their days together.

"I don't know, Dean. A lot's happened in the past two days."

Dean tosses his cold coffee onto the lawn. "Well, whatever you do, it's okay. I want you to know I'll be all right, if you decide to go. But I hope you don't. I hope you'll stay."

Sam nods in acknowledgment.

Dean regards him dubiously; Sam can see Dean isn't sure he understands. Sam knows there isn't anything he can say to convince him. Maybe this new start is real or maybe not. He doesn't want to undo all their progress by talking hypotheticals.

The sit together for a long while before Dean finally says, "Shit, I don't about you but, I could definitely use some comfort now."

"So you heard all that?" Sam snickers.

"The door was open." Dean smirks.

She doesn't think she can face either of them. She feels exposed and vulnerable knowing she hadn't sent Sam away out of offense but out of a fear she'd cave in and do something she could never take back.

This isn't about her, she reminds herself. It isn't about her feelings for them, though exactly what those are isn't clear anymore.

Sam, she smiles to herself, she's had a soft spot for him for a long time. Though, it had started out innocently enough, it had changed the moment they'd shared that bottle in Bobby's memory. She had learned a lot about him that night, about the type of man he was. It was like she was looking at _him_ for the first time. She'd immediately wanted to know more. They had saved Dean and gone their separate ways, but she never stopped thinking about him. He never stopped checking in. Whenever she had started to think that it was all in her head, some case would come along and there they would be working together. She knows there is something there. That whatever it is has turned into attraction doesn't surprise her as much as she'd like.

But Dean - her relationship with him wasn't like the one with Sam. Sure, they were friends. He would text her, letting her know they were okay. Sometimes on a particularly long drive, he'd call just wanting to talk. Nothing particularly deep or meaningful, usually a run-down of whatever case they'd just worked. Sometimes if he was working a job alone and if he was close by, he'd stop by her office and take her out for coffee and pie. She cared about Dean. When did that turn into something more?

She thinks how easily she could have let herself go this morning, acquiesced to any demand. Why had Sam come into her room? Why had he said anything? Weren't things complicated and fucked up enough? No matter what she feels, she has to remain neutral, she thinks bitterly. She can't act on her feelings for either them. She can't do anything that might upset whatever fragile progress they'd made since their arrival.

She glances at her alarm clock. She can't lay here any longer. She strengthens herself. She will get up, go downstairs and pretend it never happened. She will pretend everything is perfectly fine and pray they're ready to go.


End file.
